Sherlock: Tales of a Fragile Mind
by IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: With Moriarty's disappearance, Sherlock has nothing to occupy his mind. Everyone wants him to heal but Sherlock just wants to keep his mind working. And as the days drag on, Sherlock begins to turn to the one thing that can thrill his mind... No slash, see warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Hey there, so this is my first Sherlock Fan Fiction and I hope you all enjoy. Please note the following;**_

_**Characters: Sherlock H, John W, Lestrade, Mycroft H, Donovan, and of course, Jim Moriarty.**_

_**Rating: I guess M or something for drug mentions, drug use, and self-mutilation.**_

_**Note: There is no sex of any type in this story. Not between Sherlock and John or anyone. While I like reading a bit of that, I decided to try and keep this story close to the actual show. And in the actual show, Sherlock and John are not together.**_

_**Another Note: There are ten chapters.**_

_**Anyways, enjoy!**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_

SHERLOCK

TALES OF A FRAGILE MIND

_**Moriarty is gone and there's only one thing left to occupy Sherlock Holmes; the drugs. They make him twitch, his skin burn and his blood boil. They call out to him when his mind is bored and Sherlock doesn't know if he can ignore them much longer.**_

Chapter One: Flashback

John Watson knew he was going to die. There was nothing he could do, nothing the amazing Sherlock Holmes could do either. He'd ripped the vest from John and thrown it away. They'd thought they were safe... and then Moriarty came back.

Sherlock pointed the gun at the man, his eyes level, his thin frame poised. Moriarty just stood there, daring Sherlock with his eyes.

And then John watched as Sherlock lowered the gun, pointing it at the vest.

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and he realised he would do it; if he was going to die, Sherlock Holmes was going to take Jim Moriarty with him.

Sherlock had never much cared for himself. He'd done enough drugs and thrown himself into enough situations to know that his life didn't matter. But John– poor Dr John Watson. Sherlock had dragged John into his fractured, dangerous world, and now the army doctor was paying the cost.

They would die here, together. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. John, one of the few men who accepted Sherlock for who he was.

They were friends, brothers.

_Brother's in arms_, Sherlock thought. John gulped and Moriarty twitched. Sherlock pulled the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Puzzle

A split second was all it took for John's army training to kick in. He launched himself at Sherlock and both fell as the bomb exploded. It ripped through the room, spitting water and debris into the air. John and Sherlock skidded over the side and into the water.

Sherlock's ears were ringing as he looked around. Chunks of concrete were falling all around him and he narrowly missed being smashed by a heavy block as he hit the bottom of the pool.

The tiles were cracked beneath Sherlock and he looked around. John was jut beside him and their eyes met, both smiling hesitantly.

Everything stopped shaking and they swam. Both broke through and inhaled deep gulps of hair. Hair stuck to Sherlock's face as he pulled his tall, thin body from the pool and turned back to help John.

'I wasn't sure if you'd actually do it,' John spluttered as he spat water from his mouth. 'And then you did.'

'Yeah,' Sherlock panted and looked around. 'I did.'

Half the roof had caved in and the wall John had been leaning against seconds earlier was charred and cracked. Moriarty and his snipers were gone.

'That was crazy,' John laughed, leaning on his hands. 'That... that was fucking crazy.'

Sherlock grinned. 'Not as crazy as you shooting a serial killer.'

John laughed and Sherlock joined in. They sat that way for a few minutes, just thankful to be alive. John looked up at Sherlock and said, 'You're bleeding.'

His eyes were on Sherlock's face and the taller man raised a hand. His fingers came away soaked in blood and Sherlock shrugged, 'So are you.'

John's leg had been torn open on a broken tile and he hissed, 'Yeah, so I am.'

They laughed again and sirens filled the air.

'That would be Lestrade,' Sherlock said, 'late as always.'

John snorted.

'I'm sorry he took you.'

John wasn't sure he'd heard Sherlock correctly. He looked up into his face and realised Sherlock was dead serious, his light blue eyes narrowed.

'What?'

'I'm sorry Moriarty took you,' Sherlock said. 'It was my fault.'

'How?' John asked. 'He grabbed me off the street.'

'He took you because you're my colleague,' Sherlock said.

'No,' John said carefully and sat back. 'He took me 'cause I'm your friend, Sherlock.' He took a deep breath and swept water from his eyes. 'It's not your fault. If he hadn't taken me he would have grabbed Mrs Hudson or Lestrade.'

Sherlock mumbled, 'I suppose so.'

Tyres screeched to a halt outside the building and there were flashes of red and blue light. An ambulance squealed to a halt and Sherlock and John looked up to see police officers poor into the fragile building. DI Greg Lestrade was one of the first in and he spotted Sherlock and John.

'Trust you two to be at the heart of an explosion,' he said, wincing as he took in their wounds. 'What happened?'

Sherlock quickly explained about Moriarty as both were helped to their feet. John nearly fell and DS Sally Donovan, who'd rushed in behind Lestrade, grabbed him.

'Alright there, mate?'

'Not really,' John mumbled.

The paramedics appeared then and dragged John to the ambulance. Sherlock refused to go until he too tottered on his feet and had Lestrade pull him up.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock growled as Lestrade carried him outside.

'You are not,' Lestrade said and helped Sherlock step over fallen debris.

'We've been here before, haven't we, Lestrade?' Sherlock chuckled.

Lestrade knew what he meant; the last time Sherlock had shot up, Lestrade had been there to drag him up. But this was different; Sherlock wasn't high, he was actually hurt.

He knew Sherlock was in more pain then he was letting on. His face looked calm and guarded, as usual, but his body was shuddering against Lestrade's and his eyes looked pained. The man had a high pain threshold but coupled with his ability to ignore his own body needs, he rarely understood how much trouble his body was actually in.

Lestrade knew better than anyone else when Sherlock Holmes was in pain. He'd been there towards the end of Sherlock's addiction, when he'd been shooting up cocaine or snorting it every day. It was only when Lestrade refused to let Sherlock work on cases that the young man finally got clean. Sherlock had slipped every now and then and it was Mycroft Holmes who always knew when Sherlock was regressing. Lestrade would receive a text and he and his officers would raid Sherlock's home.

Lestrade remembered the last time that had happened; when Mycroft had texted saying he was worried. Lestrade had searched Sherlock's flat and found no drugs, only the pink suitcase.

'Yeah, we've been here before,' Lestrade finally said as they reached the ambulance beside John's. 'Only this wasn't your fault.'

'It was,' Sherlock said. 'I shot the bomb.'

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock might have looked strong and act like he didn't care, but really he was a fragile wreck. He solved cases and chased bad guys to stop from getting bored. It was why he'd done drugs. Lestrade didn't know if Sherlock had been born like this or if something had happened to make him change. But Sherlock needed the thrill to feel alive, to stop being bored.

But this time someone else had been hurt. Sherlock didn't usually care when he hurt other people but this time was different. This time John Watson had been hurt.

And no matter how much Sherlock tried to act otherwise, Lestrade knew Sherlock cared about the man. He was the only friend Sherlock had ever had, besides Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes.

'He'll be alright, Sherlock,' Lestrade said.

Sherlock knew who he was talking about and sniffed. 'I know.'

(oOo)

After giving Lestrade statements, Sherlock and John were released from hospital. They took a cab back to the flat and John groaned as he limped up the stairs.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock asked.

John nodded as he followed his friend into the flat. 'Yeah, I'm right. Just need some sleep.'

Sherlock nodded and said goodnight, listening to John climb the stairs into his room. He stood in the dark living room, staring at the wall, and thinking of Moriarty. The police had found some bodies but Sherlock knew none of them would match Moriarty. The man was too clever to die now, even when Sherlock had shot a bomb. He and John had escaped and Moriarty had too.

_And if he didn't? _Sherlock wondered to himself. _What if he _is _dead? What will I do then?_

Sherlock could already feel the need in the back of his mind; the need to do something, to keep his mind active. There was a plaster stuck across his forehead and he'd cracked three ribs, but none of that made him want to rest. He wanted to do something; to solve some puzzle that would keep his mind occupied.

The doctors had told him to eat, Lestrade had known he was underfed. John tried all the time and told Sherlock he was stupid for not eating every day. Today would be day three and Sherlock knew he could make if five, maybe six days before he _had _to eat.

_Day three, I still don't need to eat_, he told himself. _Or sleep. Sleep is boring, not needed_. On some level Sherlock knew he needed to sleep; everybody did. But his mind got too bored, he got too restless. He needed to work, to busy his mind.

Sherlock sat on the couch and flexed his hands, trying to think of something to do. Lestrade wouldn't give him any cases for a while; he'd want Sherlock to heal. Healing was boring, it was unnecessary. Sherlock needed a puzzle...

The familiar burn clawed its way through Sherlock's mind and made his muscles tense beneath pale skin. He knew what would take away the boredom. It always worked, always made him feel alive. But Mycroft had warned him what would happen. Lestrade had threatened jail. That would never happen... Mycroft wouldn't let it.

_Would he? _Sherlock mused as he sat there, fingers beating a rhythm on his thin leg. He was still wet from the pool but it didn't bother him. _Perhaps if I slipped again Mycroft _would _send me to prison._

He shook his head. He had to find some other way to occupy his mind. The drugs, while effective, would be so difficult to give up. The last time had been unlike any pain Sherlock had ever experienced. The need, the want, the desire to have that liquid pump through his system. It had made his skin ache, his blood boil. His thoughts had swirled around his brain, all with the same desire; stop being bored, get the drugs.

Sherlock took a deep breath and stopped his fingers from moving. Moriarty would come back; he'd give Sherlock a puzzle to solve.

The drugs weren't needed.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: The Worries of Others

John felt horrible the next day. His muscles ached and burned from the explosion and a serious headache threatened to take over his mind. He yawned and felt weak as he got dressed and headed downstairs.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, his fingers tapping at his thin legs. He was still wearing his suit, which was damp. It was clear he hadn't been to bed; there were dark circles underneath his bright blue eyes and his normally brushed, curly hair was frizzy and un-kept.

'Sherlock?' John questioned as he limped across the living room. His friend didn't answer and John repeated, 'Sherlock!'

'Hmm?' Sherlock mumbled and opened his eyes. 'Yes, John?'

'It's ten am,' John said.

'And?'

John frowned. 'Have you been sitting there all night?'

'I have,' Sherlock said and closed his eyes.

'What are you doing?' John asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, 'Trying not to be bored.'

John knew Sherlock needed to keep his mind busy or else he'd combust, but he didn't see how sitting on a couch could be classified as being busy.

'Are you okay?' John asked.

Sherlock just nodded.

(oOo)

There was nothing to eat and as much as John didn't want to go anywhere he needed food. 'Wanna go grab some lunch?' he asked Sherlock.

The man hadn't moved since John had entered the kitchen. He shook his head and said, 'You go.'

'Sherlock, you need to eat.'

'No I don't.'

'No, you don't _want _to eat, but you need to.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I'm waiting for Lestrade.'

'He's not going to give you a case, Sherlock.'

'He'll let me know if Moriarty's body has been found,' Sherlock said. 'So I have to wait here.'

John sighed. 'He won't come over, Sherlock, he'll call.'

Sherlock knew he was right and frowned. He didn't want to leave the flat, he wanted to remain here and fight the need that was clawing at his mind. Finally he resigned himself to food and got up.

'Fine, let's go.'

'You need to change.'

'Let's go,' Sherlock repeated and exited the flat.

(oOo)

Sherlock drew some looks as they sat at the table, John ordering for both of them. It was amazing what a simple explosion and an all-nighter could do to your appearance. Sherlock was usually so well-kept; his hair and clothing were impeccable.

But Sherlock's suit was torn in places, his hair crazily curly. Only his coat remained clean. John pointed at the blood trail to Sherlock's left eye and the man winced slightly as he rubbed his skin clean.

'I'm fine,' he said at the concern on John's eyes.

'We just got blown up, how can you be fine?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'It's happened before.'

John watched as the man's thin fingers tapped against the table. Sherlock's eyes were darting about the window, as though he were looking for something. His knee jiggled beneath the table and John felt concern fill his stomach.

Sherlock was usually so calm, so collected, but the past day and a bit had been anything but normal. Sherlock's obsession had nearly led to a little girl being blown up. John had seen Sherlock's addictive personality early on, when he'd nearly self-administered a pill of poison just to prove his brilliance to a serial killer. But he had never realised just how far Sherlock was willing to go to stop being bored. Solving murders to Sherlock wasn't about helping people, not fully. It was more about the game, about the hunt. Sherlock had to keep busy.

_But now what? _John thought as he stared at his friend. _What is he going to do now that Moriarty has disappeared?_

Sherlock caught John looking and frowned. 'What?'

'Nothing,' John shrugged.

'You're worried about me,' Sherlock said. 'You, Lestrade and Mycroft.'

'What?' John asked.

Sherlock nodded at the window and John turned to see Mycroft Holmes step from a sleek black car. He walked into the cafe and stood still before the table, leaning against his ever present umbrella.

'Good afternoon Sherlock, Dr Watson.'

John nodded at the older Holmes as Sherlock said, 'Checking up on me, Mycroft?'

'Only so much can be learned from surveillance,' Mycroft admitted. 'You haven't slept, Sherlock.'

'I know.'

John watched the exchange carefully. Clearly Mycroft wanted to know something and Sherlock didn't want to talk about it. John knew this conversation was about more than sleep, perhaps even more then what had happened last night.

'Are you alright, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked.

'Why don't you just ask me, Mycroft?' Sherlock retorted.

_So much for not wanting to talk about it, _John thought.

'Ask me if I'm using,' Sherlock said.

_Drugs, _John released. _Mycroft thinks Sherlock will go back on drugs because of Moriarty. _Suddenly he wanted to know himself. Sherlock had been up all night and had seemed jumpy all day. Was he going back to his old habits?

Sherlock glared at his brother as Mycroft grimaced. 'Show me your arms, Sherlock.'

'Just ask if I'm using,' Sherlock repeated.

'Roll up your sleeves,' Mycroft demanded.

They stared at each other, with John stuck in the middle. Finally Sherlock pulled off his coat before un-buttoning his left cuff. He rolled up the damp shirt and jacket, showing both Mycroft and John his pale white forearm.

John could see old scars on his inner-elbow; evidence of Sherlock's old drug addiction. And there were cuts; long, thin white scars that went from his wrist to his inner elbow. Clearly Sherlock had cut himself, either as a child or adult John couldn't tell.

Despite all this, there were no new bruises or marks and Mycroft said, 'Other arm.'

Sherlock complied and Mycroft exhaled audibly when he saw that white arm was just as clean as the other.

'Breath in and out,' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock did, showing that his nose wasn't stuffy or bloody.

'Good,' Mycroft said. 'I'll be watching you, Sherlock.'

'Don't trust me?'

'No,' Mycroft said. He nodded at John, 'Dr Watson,' and left the two friends alone.

Sherlock went back to tapping the table and staring out the window. John watched him carefully.

'I'm clean,' Sherlock said to John's unasked question. 'I'm not using.'

'Tell me if you want to,' John said. 'I can help.'

Sherlock snorted, as though John could never help him.

'I've helped you before, Sherlock. Don't go back on drugs; just tell me if you want to.'

'You sound like Lestrade,' Sherlock mumbled.

It was then that John's mobile vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket as the waitress set down a plate of eggs, bacon, toast and tomato in front of John. A plate of toast was placed in from of Sherlock and he frowned at it, as though the cooked bread had personally insulted him. John smiled slightly as he answered his phone with, 'Hello?'

'_Dr Watson, its DI Lestrade._'

John glanced up at Sherlock, who hadn't touched his food, before saying, 'Yes, hello.'

'_I just received a text from Mycroft Holmes about his brother. He's worried._'

'Yes, I know,' John said.

'_Is he using again?_'

'No, he's not.'

Sherlock's eyes found John's and they narrowed.

'_Good. Keep an eye on him. He slips easily._'

'Don't worry, I will,' John said.

'Tell Lestrade to stop asking about my inability to keep clean and tell me about Moriarty,' Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows and asked, 'Did you hear that?'

'_Yes, put him on,_' Lestrade sighed.

John handed across the phone and Sherlock asked, 'Any news?'

'_No, there's no sight of Moriarty._'

'And the bodies?'

'_We don't know what he looks like, Sherlock. How are we supposed to know if any of the bodies are his?_'

'I'm coming to see them,' Sherlock said.

'_No, don't–_' Lestrade began but Sherlock ended the call.

He passed the phone to John and said, 'Let's go.'

'We're eating,' John said and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

'We have to go and see the bodies,' Sherlock hissed.

'We're eating,' John repeated and glared at Sherlock. 'And so are you.'

'I don't need to eat,' Sherlock insisted.

John folded his arms. 'Sherlock, I will wrestle you to the ground right now and force-feed you if I have to.'

Sherlock stopped, half sitting and half standing. He searched John's eyes for any signs of doubt. He soon realised that John was serious and fell back into his seat. Everything would go quicker if he just did as John asked.

Sherlock grabbed a piece of toast and took big bites, swallowing and watching John as he did. John ate slowly, his eyes trained on Sherlock's.

Finally John finished and Sherlock said, 'Can we go now?'

John nodded and paid for the food before following Sherlock outside.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Need

The morgue was a cold, sterile place that both Sherlock and John were used to. There were eight bodies pulled from the pool and Sherlock and John looked at them all. Finally, after seeing the last body, Sherlock said, 'No, none of them are Moriarty.'

'They must be the snipers,' John said. 'Were they all murdered?'

'Close range, back of the head,' Lestrade said.

'Execution,' Sherlock muttered.

'Why would Moriarty execute his own men?' John asked.

'So they couldn't talk to us if caught,' Sherlock said. He looked at Lestrade. 'Did you find anything interesting?'

The Detective shook his head. 'No, nothing yet. I'll tell you if we find something.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'Will you really?'

Lestrade paused at that and sighed. 'Sherlock, you need to rest.'

'No, I need to work!' Sherlock snapped. He swept from the room, yelling, 'Call me when you have something!' over his shoulder.

John and Lestrade glanced at each other before John followed Sherlock.

(oOo)

'Are you okay, Sherlock?' John asked once in the cab on their way back to 221B Baker Street.

'Fine,' Sherlock snapped.

He wasn't but John didn't know how to pursue the matter. Sherlock wasn't a man who liked admitting he needed help. If John pushed him, Sherlock would just withdraw further. All he could do was keep an eye on him.

(oOo)

That afternoon Sherlock found himself in his bedroom. It was a room rarely used, Sherlock only ducking in for a change of clothes and occasional sleep. Usually he took naps on the couch in-between cases.

It was small and sparsely furnished, with a small single bed, tall mirror and wardrobe. The window was covered in a fine layer of dust and the world beyond was distorted. Sherlock often thought that that was what normal people saw; they looked at the world but didn't really see anything. Everything was obscured; only Sherlock could see the truth... and Mycroft, of course. Mycroft Holmes, who was far smarter than Sherlock could ever hope to be. It annoyed Sherlock to no end, knowing that his brother was far cleverer than he.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed and felt in groan under his small weight. He'd had it for years, ever since he had lived with Mycroft. He'd taken it with him and spent days and nights withering on the sheets, drugs coursing through his veins.

_Drugs, _Sherlock thought as he stared at his reflection. There they were again; flittering about his mind like a bad dream. He could usually escape them but not lately. Not in the past two days.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts. But it never worked. What Sherlock needed was something to think about. Moriarty had yet to make contact and Sherlock wondered if he ever would.

_He has to, _he told himself. _He's clever, he needs a challange. I'm that challange._

Sherlock's reflection stared back at him. What he saw was a skinny man in his early thirties, one with frizzy dark hair and piercing blue eyes. But one that was lost, a man who needed... something. He felt his chest contract and Sherlock rolled his neck.

Moriarty would make contact.

He would.

There was no need to think about that leather case on top of his wardrobe, the one that could hold any model of phone... the one that Sherlock used to hide his dirty little secrets.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Very Best Thrill

_One Week Later_

John Watson came out in the morning to see Sherlock Holmes lounging on the couch. He had John's pistol in his thin fingers and was pointing it at his head, a cigarette in his other hand.

'Sherlock...' John said slowly, stepping closer. 'What are you doing?'

Sherlock blinked and said, 'What?' before taking a long drag of his cigarette and blowing it into the air. The tea cup beside on the table was overflowing with stubbed-out butts.

'Why are you pointing my gun at your head?' John asked, slowly, trying to keep the situation calm.

Sherlock blinked again and looked at the gun, as though just realising it was there. 'Oh, just holding it. Why?'

John was used to Sherlock's quirks. The past week had been anything but easy. Sherlock had quickly descended into a kind of madness that had him twitching and jumping about like a mad man one minute and lazing about like a depressed teenager the next. John had found him sitting in the corner the other day, muttering to himself about bees, puffing on a cigarette.

'Sherlock, give me the gun.'

'Why?' he asked, like he honestly didn't understand what was wrong with the situation.

_Sociopath indeed, _John thought. 'Just hand it over,' he said aloud.

There was a minute of silence before Sherlock held the gun out for John. John took it and carefully flicked the safety on.

'What the hell was that?' he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged.

'You have to stop doing this.'

'I'm not doing anything,' Sherlock said. And then, more to himself, he muttered, 'That's the problem.'

John sighed. 'I'm going out with Sarah tonight, will you be okay?'

Sherlock waved his hand and turned his back on John, curling himself into a ball and puffing on his smoke. All John could see was Sherlock's back and a mop of curly brown hair.

'Alright, I'll take that as a yes,' John said. 'I'm going to get something to eat, coming?'

Sherlock grunted.

'Sherlock–'

'I ate yesterday!' Sherlock snapped. 'Remember, the pasta you force-fed me?'

'You barely touched it,' John said.

Sherlock grumbled and went silent again.

'Fine,' John said, 'I'm going out and I'm taking my gun.'

Sherlock didn't answer and listened as John left him alone.

(oOo)

He didn't return for the rest of the day and as evening descended the need flooded Sherlock's mind. He twitched on the couch, clawing at his pale arms. He didn't move for fear of giving in to what he knew he needed; the thrill of pushing that needle into his sinewy forearm, the following euphoria better than any orgasm.

The cigarettes weren't helping anymore. Nor was the cutting.

He'd started three days ago. While pretending to take showers he'd sit on the tiled floor and slice at his thin, white arm, marvelling at the blood that pooled over the open wounds. The pain pushed back the stagnation that threatened to take over Sherlock's mind. But it just wasn't working anymore.

There was a soft knock on the door but Sherlock ignored it. A few seconds later, Mycroft Holmes entered.

'Hello brother,' he said.

'Go away,' Sherlock grunted.

'Just thought I'd pop in,' Mycroft said. 'Dr Watson not here?'

'You know he's not here, Mycroft,' Sherlock spat, 'why else would you come if not to check up on me?'

Mycroft was silent and that forced Sherlock to turn and face him.

'Are you okay?' the elder Holmes asked.

Sherlock snorted. 'Fine.'

'Don't lie to me, Sherlock. You've been cutting yourself again, I can tell.'

'Why ask if you know what I've been doing?' Sherlock asked angrily.

'I care about you.'

Sherlock grunted and Mycroft sighed.

'If you want me to be okay, Mycroft, then ask your informant to give me a case.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 'DI Lestrade isn't my informant.'

'No? Then how is it he knows what I'm up to? You two don't share texts about me, then?'

'Maybe he just cares, Sherlock.'

Another grunt from the younger Holmes.

'Why must you feel the need to push everyone away, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked.

'I do not,' Sherlock said, sounding very much like a hurt child.

'Is that so?' Mycroft asked. 'Then why is it that Lestrade, Dr Watson, and even our Mother and Father, do not truly know you?'

'There's nothing to know, Mycroft,' Sherlock said. 'I am what I am.'

'And that's just the tip of the iceberg,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock was angry now and he flung himself from the couch. 'You're one to talk!' he spat. 'A _minor role _with the British Government? Who are you kidding?'

'There is a difference between lying and glossing over something,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock snorted and sat back down on the couch. 'Please leave, Mycroft.'

'Let me help you, Sherlock,' Mycroft said with a kindness that looked surprisingly normal on the tall man. 'I know you're slipping. Soon the cutting, the cigarettes, it won't be enough.'

'I'm fine,' Sherlock insisted.

'Sherlock–'

'Fine,' Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed. 'Okay. If you won't let me help...' he trailed off but Sherlock knew what he was saying.

'I look forward to seeing your surveillance teams,' Sherlock said.

Mycroft tapped on his umbrella before saying, 'I'll see you soon, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't say anything as his brother left.

And there it was, again. The people around Sherlock didn't trust him.

_They shouldn't_, Sherlock told himself. _I can't be trusted. A junkie can never be trusted._

And that's all he was; a junkie. Whether it was drugs he craved or a good murder case, Sherlock needed a fix. Needed it more than the air he breathed. He needed the adrenalin, the thrill, to push his mind, to keep it from dying.

And slowly his will power crumbled.

His long fingers found the mobile in his pocket. _No, _he told himself. _Mycroft is watching._

Sherlock left the flat and went downstairs. Mrs Hudson was sitting in her kitchen and answered on Sherlock's second knock.

'Yes, my dear?'

Sherlock put on his most charming smile. 'Mrs Hudson, is there any chance you could run to the store and grab me a few things? Dr Watson isn't in and I'm feeling quite faint.'

Her face fell into concern. 'Oh, of course, dear. That terrible explosion has kept you in bed, hasn't it?'

Sherlock nodded and put pain in his voice. 'I'm afraid it has. Do you mind popping out?'

'Of course not,' Mrs Hudson said and grabbed her purse. 'I'll get you some tea, maybe a few biscuits. Would you like that?'

Sherlock nodded and watched as Mrs Hudson left. She hadn't bothered locking her door and Sherlock stepped into her apartment. Sherlock felt bad, using Mrs Hudson like this, but he couldn't stand it any longer. The need for a fix was outweighing his concern for other people.

Like most people, Mrs Hudson had a mobile phone and Sherlock took it with shaky hands. He typed out the message and looked at it, considered deleting it and crawling back to the couch.

But finally it became too much and Sherlock pressed send.

_To: Pyramid_

_The usual._

_SH_

It had been a year since Sherlock's last slip but he'd kept tabs on Pyramid. The dealer came through and a man appeared on Mrs Hudson's doorstep, holding out a hand. Money and drugs were exchanged and Sherlock went back to his flat.

There he went into his room and took the leather phone case, flipping it open to reveal syringes, a rubber band that could be fashioned into a tourniquet, a rubber-topped bottle and a spoon, the bottom of which was blackened from the flame of a lighter.

Sherlock sat on the couch, staring at the white powder. Was he prepared to go back down that road? The road that led to things Sherlock did to get his fix, the one that Lestrade had barely managed to pull him off before?

He took a deep breath and shivered, his skin burning with the need. It was everywhere; in his stomach, his chest, his head. It clawed at him and snapped, demanding to be quietened down. Usually the puzzle, the crime, kept his boredom away and kept these things from destroying him. But there were no more cases, not since Moriarty. Lestrade thought Sherlock needed time to heal... he needed to be active.

Sherlock had always stated he wasn't an addict. He did drugs to stop being bored... and while that was true, there was no denying the craving.

Sherlock Holmes was an addict; at least he could be honest with himself.

And so it was with practiced skill that Sherlock burned the powder, mixed it together with water, and put it into a small bottle. The syringe was held steady as Sherlock pushed air out of it before sticking the sharp-tipped needle into the rubber-topped bottle. He drew in the amount of liquid necessary to stave off the boredom Sherlock always felt.

The needle was there, on the table, as Sherlock rolled back his sleeve and pulled out a rubber band, making a quick tourniquet. He wrapped it tightly around his left bicep and flexed his fingers as he picked up the needle.

The vein was there, rising and catching Sherlock's attention. All around it were fading scars, marks of past crimes Sherlock had committed. And the fresh lines, the cuts he'd administered slowly with the aid of a razor blade.

Sherlock slid the syringe into his arm and pushed down on the plunger. He withdrew it and dropped it on the table before pulling off the tourniquet and flexing his fingers.

The rush came quickly and Sherlock groaned in relief as it shot through his veins. The euphoria was like an old friend that made Sherlock grin and lean back, slouching on the couch. The boredom of seconds before flittered away and Sherlock felt safe and comfortable as his heart beat quickly in his chest. His skin tingled and he felt complete; he didn't need Moriarty or a puzzle. The drugs kept his brain ticking along and Sherlock smiled.

(oOo)

The buzz left him hollow and shocked, sitting on the couch with his fingers twitching. It wasn't as bad as before; the light-headedness he'd felt of the drugs still kept his mind occupied. It was his body that hurt now. It needed the drug; wanted the drug. But Sherlock would wait. When the boredom came back, when his mind shuddered and became too much to bear, Sherlock would take the drug.

The door downstairs opened and Sherlock jumped to his feet. He quickly collected the cocaine, syringe, and everything else that marked his slip back into drugs. He ran to his room and slipped them into a draw, knowing he'd have to hide them better later. If Mycroft thought Sherlock was back on drugs there would be no stopping the search and questions.

Sherlock went back into the living room at a normal pace, his heart jumping from John's sudden appearance.

'What are you doing home?' he asked as calmly as he could.

John was putting food in the fridge and said, 'Sarah and I had a fight.'

'Oh?' Sherlock said. He felt a bit upset that he hadn't noticed, that he hadn't observed the fight from the way John's shoulders were hunched, his brow furrowed. But really, he just didn't care.

He didn't care if they'd had a fight and he'd been hoping to have the flat to himself. If John had come home just a minute earlier...

'Yeah,' John said. 'She wants me to stop looking at cases with you, because of the danger.' He paused. 'But it's fun and we save people. I told her that but she got hysterical.'

'Uh huh,' Sherlock said, putting in as few words as he could.

'Are you alright?' John asked and Sherlock glanced up at him. 'You don't seem yourself.'

'I'm fine,' Sherlock said.

'Not bored?' John asked.

Sherlock realised he'd been acting too calm, his fingers behaving themselves. The last week Sherlock had been jumping around like he was high. And now that he actually was...

'Yeah, just looked into something for the cafe owner down the street,' he lied smoothly. 'Just a small question.'

'And you helped him?' John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. 'It was a small thing, boring really, but its kept my mind occupied even for a few minutes.'

'That's good,' John said and smiled. 'I'm glad.'

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt, something he never felt when taking drugs and lying to people. He was lying to John, a true friend who had stuck by Sherlock because he wanted to. Lestrade _had _to see Sherlock, _had _to keep him clean. Sure Lestrade cared but he also cared about Sherlock's abilities.

Mycroft cared because he loved Sherlock, because they were brothers. He felt it necessary to keep Sherlock clean.

But John... he wanted Sherlock to stay clean because they were friends.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock repeated and disappeared to his room. Already the clawing was back in his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: The Case

_One Month Later_

Sherlock found it extraordinary at how easy he slipped back into his old routine. He texted Pyramid, a dealer appeared, things were exchanged, and Sherlock shot up cocaine, or sometimes snorted it when he wanted something different. He cut at his arm with a sharp razor blade, loving the feel of the metal in his skin as his mind whirled. He puffed on cigarettes, smiling at the smoke that drifted around his head. John's relationship with Sarah was progressing well, meaning John was out a lot, leaving Sherlock home to indulge in his self-destructive behaviour.

Mycroft called every now and then but Sherlock acted his usual surly self and kept his brother at bay. Lestrade would often call, to check up, and Sherlock's usual sarcasm kept the DI from coming over.

All the while, Sherlock slipped deeper and deeper into a drug-infused haze, his body suffering like before. He lost more weight, his eyes sunk down, and his general appearance went to hell. John noticed these things but chalked them up to the lack of a certain psychopath criminal consultant. He asked questions, but Sherlock kept him off.

Sherlock usually held John's doctor's skills in high regard. But the man was living with a junkie and had no clue. Perhaps John just didn't want to admit it. Maybe he didn't want to see the situation Sherlock had thrown himself into.

With cocaine fuelling his system, Sherlock found this incredibly funny. When coming down, lying curled up and shivering on the couch, Sherlock found it infuriating. Couldn't the man see how far he had fallen?

Each time he spiralled down, Sherlock told himself never again. He wouldn't do it; couldn't do it. He couldn't stand the shivers, the itch, or lying to John and the others. But then he'd think of the high and the needles would come back out.

(oOo)

It was midnight when John came home, pushing the door open and closing it silently behind him. As usual, Sherlock was on the lounge. He seemed sick, and was shivering slightly as John pulled his jacket off.

'You alright, Sherlock?'

'Mm,' Sherlock grunted, sweat darkening his grey shirt.

'You sure?

'Yes,' Sherlock snapped angrily. He rubbed sweat from his eyes and gripped the leather case tightly. John had been so close to catching him.

_Maybe I want him to_, Sherlock mused, his mind hazy. _Maybe that's why I do it in the living room._

John went into the kitchen to make tea and Sherlock's phone began ringing. He groaned and slipped the leather case into his robe pocket while extracting his mobile.

'Yes?'

'_Sherlock, there's been a murder._'

Sherlock sat straighter. 'Are you actually giving me a case?'

'_Yes,_' Lestrade said. '_Are you ready to work a case?_'

Sherlock thought about that. He didn't need to work; he didn't need to solve the puzzle. The drugs kept him busy.

But it would look fishy if Sherlock suddenly said no to a case. And then Lestrade and John would ask questions. Mycroft would get involved. And, once again, Sherlock's secret would be out.

'Yes,' Sherlock finally said and rubbed his eyes with twitching fingers. Already the buzz was leaving him. 'I want the case.'

Lestrade gave him the details and Sherlock stood up on shaky legs. He blinked a few times and said, 'Lestrade has a case for me.'

'Oh, do you want me to come?' John asked, stepping back into the living room with a cup of tea.

Sherlock said, 'If you want. I have to get changed.'

John nodded and Sherlock shuffled across the room. The leather case fell from his robe pocket and John stooped to pick it up.

'Don't!' Sherlock shouted and grabbed the case from John's hands.

John let him have it and raised his eyebrows. 'What's wrong?'

Sherlock could no longer keep his shaking from John and said, 'Nothing, just don't touch things that aren't yours.' He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and turned his back on John.

'Sherlock, are you okay?'

'Fine,' Sherlock said, 'just excited for the case.'

John nodded but wasn't convinced. Sherlock seemed... nervous. And what had all that been about with the leather case?

Sherlock and John stepped from the cab and walked across to the crime scene. It was a tall house, the front roped off with police tape. The police cars threw red and blue light all around and it danced off Sherlock's pale skin.

DI Lestrade and DS Donovan turned to see Sherlock and John approach. As soon as Lestrade set eyes on Sherlock he knew what was wrong.

'Damn it,' he muttered and ducked under the police tape.

'Why'd you call the Freak?' Donovan demanded but Lestrade ignored her. He approached Sherlock and John quickly.

'A word, please,' Lestrade said and took Sherlock by the elbow.

John continued towards Donovan but threw Sherlock and Lestrade a confused look.

'Do you mind not man-handling me?' Sherlock asked.

'You're using again, aren't you?' Lestrade asked.

Sherlock breathed out before saying, 'Why do you ask?'

'You look like shit.'

'That's nice,' Sherlock smirked.

'Cut the crap, Sherlock!' Lestrade hissed. 'Are you using again?'

They eyed each other carefully, both waiting for Sherlock's response. He could tell Lestrade right now and get it over with. He could get clean again.

'No, I'm not,' Sherlock said. 'Now, the murder?'

Lestrade looked at Sherlock carefully. 'Sherlock–'

'I'm clean,' Sherlock lied. 'Now show me the murder.'

Lestrade didn't know if he believed Sherlock or not. The man clearly wasn't healthy but that didn't mean he was using.

Finally, Lestrade sighed and said, 'Come on.'

(oOo)

'What a waste of time,' Sherlock snapped as he and John left the crime scene. 'Those stupid, idiotic police.' He fumed as he stormed into 221B.

'Come on, Sherlock,' John said.

'No, they completely wasted my time!' Sherlock said, anger coursing through him. And the need... the need was there, too. Sherlock needed to get high.

'Don't you usually love throwing it in their faces?' John asked. 'Tonight you just kind of... told them they were wrong and swore at them for wasting your time. Normally you'd spend an hour rubbing their noses in it.'

Sherlock's eyes found John's. 'What are you saying?'

John shrugged. He didn't really know what he was saying.

'Just leave me alone, John,' Sherlock said.

'I didn't do anything,' John exclaimed.

Sherlock just snorted and stormed into his room. He'd been doing that a lot lately and John was worried. Usually his room was more like an unused space. But now Sherlock spent almost every night in there.

_Is he on drugs again? _John asked himself for the tenth time that month. _No, no. He told me he was clean. Sherlock wouldn't lie, not to me._

John shook his head and went to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: Crash

John looked across at Sherlock. The man was standing tall, eyes narrowed, body still. He was so unlike the jumpy man John had grown used to over the past week.

'Are you okay?' John asked.

Sherlock nodded. 'The puzzle,' he said.

John knew what he meant; Sherlock needed the puzzle, it was keeping him sane.

'Good,' John said. He'd been worried that Sherlock would go back to drugs. The past few days had been anything but good.

Lestrade had called almost every other day with a case and Sherlock seemed less than thrilled to leave 221B and look for murderers. John didn't understand what was happening. Had Moriarty ruined Sherlock? Was the consulting detective now bored with normal murders? Was Moriarty the only one who could make him happy?

They were at Scotland Yard when Mycroft Holmes appeared. He stepped out of a black car and addressed Sherlock, John and Lestrade.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said and eyed his brother carefully.

'What do you want?' Sherlock snapped, puffing on a cigarette. He was snapping a lot lately.

Mycroft paused before saying, 'Show me your arms.'

Sherlock froze. John and Lestrade looked from one brother to the other.

'Excuse me?'

'Show me your arms, Sherlock,' Mycroft said. 'Do not make me repeat myself again.'

'You know what, Mycroft?' Sherlock said angrily and dropped his cigarette, grinding it into the pavement with the hell of his shoe. 'I'm sick of you running about acting like you're the boss of me. Just leave me the hell alone.'

He had stepped back from the group and his fingers twitched nervously.

_I need to get high, _Sherlock told himself. _Make the itch stop, stop it now. Mycroft can't know, I won't show him. No, no. Stop the itch, high. Get high. Send the text._

He took another step back and John reached out, grabbing him by the arm. His fingers pushed down on the track marks and cuts on Sherlock's arm and the tall man winced, ripping his arm from John's.

'Sherlock–' John began but his friend shook his head.

Sherlock could feel blood pooling on his arm; John had ripped a few of the cuts open, making fresh pain tingle along Sherlock's arm.

_Must stop from being bored, have to stop, cut, cut, stick the needle in._

'Just leave me alone,' he hissed and quickly disappeared.

Mycroft sighed and leaned against his umbrella.

'Is he using again?' Lestrade asked.

'It would appear so,' Mycroft said.

'No, he can't be,' John said. 'I'd know.'

'Junkie's are excellent liars,' Lestrade said, 'and this _is _Sherlock Holmes. He's the best liar I've met. We only found out he was using last time by surprising him at home.'

John shook his head again. 'No, I don't believe it.'

'We'll leave it for now,' Mycroft said. 'Lestrade, when I text you, come running.'

The DI nodded as Mycroft Holmes stepped back into his car and was driven away.

(oOo)

At home, John found Sherlock in his room. He was curled up on the bed, his back to John. Blood had leaked through onto his robe from the fresh cuts Sherlock had administered when he got home and Sherlock poked the stain absentmindedly.

'Sherlock, are you using?' John asked.

'You don't beat around the bush, do you, Doctor?' He wasn't high; he'd known John would come straight home. No, he couldn't get high right now.

_Later, _he told himself, aware of John standing behind him. _Later, stick the needle in, it'll stop you being bored. It'll be good, take the boringness away, take away the itch, the need... oh god, please, make it stop._

'I want to hear you say it,' John said. 'Tell me the truth.'

Sherlock turned to face John. His eyes were hazy and there were dark shadows beneath them. 'I'm clean,' he lied.

John nodded, 'Alright.'

Sherlock turned his back again and John shut the door. He leaned against it, taking deep breaths.

_He lied, _John realised. _Sherlock's fucking using._

And so he took out his mobile and texted the only person who could prove it.

(oOo)

Two hours later, Detective Inspector Lestrade groaned when his phone vibrated. Nobody ever called him with good news. He and Donovan had stopped for lunch and Lestrade was starving. He bit into his burger and flipped his phone open to find he had a message.

'Who's that?' Donovan asked and Lestrade frowned. Sometimes she was so nosy.

Lestrade opened his inbox and found that the number was unknown. But he knew who it was as soon as he read the message:

_To: DI Gregory Lestrade_

_Now._

_MH_

Lestrade cursed and flipped his phone shut.

'What is it?' Donovan asked.

'Let's go,' Lestrade said, leaving his food where it was.

Donovan collected hers and followed her boss to the car. 'Where are we going?'

Lestrade had his phone out and made a quick call.

(oOo)

Sherlock was jumpy, sitting on the couch in his robe. The leather case was in his pocket and Sherlock was just waiting for John to leave. But the doctor hadn't left the flat since returning and Sherlock was growing impatient. Soon he'd have to disappear into the bathroom, away from John's eyes.

'The water's off,' John told Sherlock from the kitchen.

The tall man's eyes jumped to John and he said, 'What? How long ago?'

John shrugged. 'About twenty minutes.'

There was a crashing from downstairs and John looked at the front door. He was aware of Sherlock going into the bathroom but didn't look back as loud footsteps hit the stairs. And then the door opened, revealing Lestrade.

'What, you don't knock?' John asked.

'Where is he?' Lestrade demanded.

John pointed at the bathroom and Lestrade crossed the living room. He pushed it open and spotted Sherlock before the toilet. Sherlock wet his lips and said, 'This isn't what it looks like.'

Lestrade closed the door, leaving John and DS Donovan in the living room. 'What's going on?' John asked.

Donovan shrugged. 'He got a text and after making a call we drove here.'

John looked at the door and realisation shot through him. After texting Mycroft, the elder Holmes must have texted Lestrade. Which meant that Mycroft and Lestrade both agreed with John; it was true, Sherlock was using.

Inside the bathroom, Sherlock had his hands clasped behind his back.

'What do you want, Lestrade?'

'We shut off the water,' Lestrade said.

'And why is that?'

'You don't need to be a genius to figure that out,' Lestrade said.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

'You can't hide it, Sherlock. Just hand it over.'

'Don't you need a search warrant?' Sherlock asked.

Lestrade shook his head. 'You know I'm not going to arrest you, not yet, anyway. And seeing as how you're freaking out, well, I don't need to search the place, do I?'

'I can ask you to leave,' Sherlock said. 'Right now.'

'You can,' Lestrade admitted. 'But wouldn't you rather I caught you instead of your brother?'

Sherlock paused, knowing Lestrade was right. It was only because of Mycroft that Lestrade wouldn't arrest him. Lestrade would let Sherlock give up himself; he wouldn't force him into rehab. Mycroft on the other hand...

_Well, he clearly already knows, _Sherlock thought. _But he's letting me decide on whether or not to get clean._

So Sherlock handed over the small leather case he'd been holding. Lestrade flipped it open and inside found a packet of white powder, a bottle of liquid with a rubber top, a spoon and five syringes.

Lestrade sighed and said, 'Have you used any?' Sherlock hesitated and Lestrade said, 'Roll up your sleeves, Sherlock, or I'll call your brother.'

Sherlock complied, rolling up his left sleeve. In the crook of his elbow were dozens of tiny, black puncture holes. His white skin was bruised and the veins stood out, thick and blue, on his forearms. There were also about forty cuts, maybe more, raking every inch of Sherlock's forearm. Some were healing, others fresh; trails of dry blood snaked down Sherlock's skin.

It was worse than Lestrade had feared. 'Sherlock–'

'What's going on in here?' John demanded, pushing open the door. Sherlock didn't have time to hide his wounded arm and John saw the marks. 'Jesus.'

Lestrade pocketed the leather case and said, 'Keep an eye on him; make sure he detox's, and don't let him near a razor blade, he'll end up killing himself just trying to get high off the pain.' He looked back at Sherlock. 'If you don't get clean I'll be forced to take action.'

Sherlock nodded mutely and Lestrade left, taking Donovan with him. Sherlock and John stood in the bathroom, staring at each other.

'How long?' John demanded. When Sherlock didn't answer, John shouted, 'How long?'

'One month,' Sherlock blurted.

John could see the signs now. Sherlock had been getting thinner, his mood swings crazier, and he had been acting different. John couldn't believe he hadn't seen it; he was a bloody doctor and he hadn't seen that his flatmate had become a junkie.

John sighed and left the bathroom, forcing Sherlock to follow him.

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said.

'Are you?' John asked. 'Are you really?'

Sherlock was surprised to find that he was. 'I'm really sorry, John. I just...' The need had burned through him, had forced him to go back on something he'd thought he'd left behind.

John looked up and saw Sherlock run a hand along his forearm before shivering.

'Sherlock,' John began, unsure how to go on. Finally he said, 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I don't need your help,' Sherlock snapped. But the man's thin frame and shivering fingers told John otherwise. 'I don't need help,' Sherlock said.

'Let me help you, Sherlock,' John began but the man turned and walked away. John sighed. Sherlock hated feeling vulnerable, he hated needing people. And no matter how bad it got, John knew Sherlock wouldn't ask for help.

John was beginning to wonder why he bothered.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Never Leave

John had stepped out for an hour, just an hour, to clear his head. Sure, he was angry with Sherlock (he was fucking furious), but he couldn't blame him for lying. As brilliant and amazing as Sherlock Holmes was, the man was still a junkie. And junkie's lied, cheated and stole to get a fix. Why would Sherlock be any different?

So John steeled himself for the following weeks as he walked up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock would go through so much pain and he'd undoubtedly torture John in the process. But John was prepared to go through it.

'Sherlock, I know you lied, but I'm here to help,' John said when he stepped into the flat.

Sherlock was lying back on the couch, his hands twirling in the air.

'Sherlock?'

'Mm?' the scruffy detective murmured.

John stepped closer and saw that Sherlock's eyes were glazy. On the table beside him was a syringe and rubber band. Sherlock grinned stupidly.

'Are you fucking high?' John demanded.

'Yes,' Sherlock said.

'Jesus Christ,' John spat. He carefully picked up the syringe. 'What the fuck are you doing?'

'Getting high,' Sherlock mumbled, smiling. 'I thought we... established that.'

'You can't do this, Sherlock.'

'Yes I can.'

'Don't you want to get clean?'

Suddenly a sense of sobriety passed over Sherlock's face. His eyes snapped back to their pale blue. 'Yes,' he said. 'I want to get clean. I... I can't.'

'I can help you,' John said and sat on the couch.

'No you can't,' Sherlock choked and John was surprised to see tears form in his eyes. 'No, don't help me. No one can. I don't... I don't need...'

And then he was gone, the cocaine quickly flooding his brain. Sherlock gave in and smiled.

John sighed.

The next morning saw Sherlock groan heavily. His head was fuzzy, his tongue thick and swollen. His muscles ached and burned beneath pale, clammy skin. He blinked rapidly and twisted himself around.

John was sitting in the armchair, his chin resting on his chest. Sherlock realised that he had spent the night there.

Groaning, Sherlock sat up. He felt horrible and apparently looked so from the look on John's face when he woke.

'Morning.'

'Mm,' Sherlock grunted.

'You got high again,' John said.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, his curls flipping about. 'I know.'

'I thought you were going to get clean.'

'I never said that,' Sherlock growled and closed his eyes.

'I want you to get clean, Sherlock.'

'Why?'

When John didn't answer, Sherlock looked up at him.

'Why?' John asked and Sherlock nodded. 'Because I care about you, Sherlock. You're my friend, my best friend; you're like a brother to me. And I'm not going to sit by and watch you kill yourself.'

Sherlock leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Why was John still here? Why was he sticking by him?

_It doesn't make sense, _Sherlock told himself. _John should have left by now, everyone leaves. Why hasn't he left? Will he leave soon? He should have left, why hasn't he left?_

'I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock,' John said calmly. 'Not while you're like this.'

'I don't need your help,' Sherlock snarled.

'Yeah, you do,' John said. 'You just don't want to admit it. You like being the aloof genius; the guy who doesn't need anyone. You're so afraid of people leaving that you push them away before they have a chance to get to know you.'

'I'm a sociopath,' Sherlock reminded him. 'I don't have feelings; I don't care about people.'

'If that was true you would have shot Moriarty when you had the chance,' John said. 'You would have let me die just to beat him. But you didn't because you care.'

Sherlock shook his head but didn't say anything.

_He's right, _Sherlock thought. _I could have sacrificed him; I could have let him die. Why didn't I? Why did I save him? How did Moriarty know I wouldn't let John die?_

'Sherlock,' John said calmly. 'I'm not leaving. I'm going to stay by your side while you get clean. And then, when you are, you're going to admit that you actually give a crap about people.'

Sherlock turned his back on John and curled up on the couch.

His skin burned, ached, and Sherlock couldn't stop it. he was going through withdrawal and all the symptoms hit him suddenly. He found himself in the bathroom, retching over the toilet bowl. But with nothing in his stomach, Sherlock only threw up stomach acid and it made his throat burn.

Sherlock turned and groped at the kitchen sink. He pulled open the door and groped under the sink, finally finding what he was looking for. The razor blade felt cool in Sherlock's grip and he held the tape gently as he rolled back his sleeve.

Sherlock got one cut across his skin before John caught him. He'd hidden all the knives and had searched the living room and Sherlock's room looking for razor blades. He was shocked at the amount he'd found.

'No, don't!' Sherlock said but he was too weak. John plucked the blade from his shaking fingers and Sherlock groaned. The first cut had been so good, so deep, and had made Sherlock feel better. John disappeared but returned with a first aid kit.

He set about cleaning up the cut and sticking a plaster across it. The amount of cuts on Sherlock's arm made him sick.

'Why the cutting, Sherlock?' he asked, disappointment in his voice.

Sherlock winced at it and turned away. Even John was disappointed in him now. The great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to slicing open his own skin to feel a thrill.

'Helps,' he mumbled and dry-heaved over the toilet.

'Can't you do something normal?' he asked. 'Take up sky diving or something.'

'Boring,' Sherlock mumbled and rested his head against his injured arm. He closed his eyes and took shaky breaths.

'Sherlock, please stop doing this,' John said. 'I can't watch you go through this.'

'Then leave,' Sherlock mumbled. 'Just go.'

'No.'

'Go!' Sherlock shouted and John was surprised at the look of ferocity in his eyes. 'Just go, John, go now! You'll leave eventually, everyone does! So just go now and save yourself the trouble!'

John took a deep breath. He was beginning to figure Sherlock out; the consulting detective wasn't as mysterious as he made out to be.

Sherlock was scared of people leaving. Being different meant that all his life people had walked away, had left him alone. Eventually Sherlock had taken to being difficult and obtuse, forcing people away before they could get close. But Lestrade had stuck by him and so had Mycroft. And now John had, too, and that terrified Sherlock. He couldn't bear to have John leave so he was trying to push him away before it got too hard...

John knew it wasn't love, at least not romantic love. Sherlock had never shown a preference for either gender but John could tell, from the small looks and the words, that Sherlock wasn't as asexual as he appeared. He wasn't sure what he was, exactly, only that he was far from being asexual.

'Sherlock,' John said calmly, soothingly, and the consulting detective looked up at him. 'I'm not going anywhere, not now, not other.' Clearly Sherlock didn't believe him so John continued. 'You're my best friend, probably _the _best friend I've ever had. I've killed for you, Sherlock, and I know you'd do the same. Don't deny that you care about me, I know you do.'

Sherlock tutted but John continued talking.

'Stop it, just stop it,' John said. 'Stop doing this to yourself; your brain can't shut down, I know that, but resorting to drugs and self-mutilation isn't going to help anything. All you have to do is tell me you're bored and I can try and help. I can suggest experiments, I can talk, I can play fucking chess if that's what you want to do. Just don't' ever, _ever_, resort to drugs again, Sherlock Holmes. Or I'll kill you myself.'

Sherlock smiled at that but it was short lived. He rested his head against his arm once more.

'You won't leave?' he asked quietly.

John shook his head and sat on the tiles, his back pressed to the wall. 'No, Sherlock,' he said. 'I won't.'

And he stayed that way, all night, while Sherlock vomited into the toilet and sweated profusely. He didn't leave because that's what friends do.

And John was there.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: The Criminal Consultant

The following day was worse than anything Sherlock had experienced before. Yes, he'd detoxed before (more than several times), but this was different. This time the drugs had taken a hold and forced Sherlock into shooting up at least four times a day. And the cuts, every single one of them was infected and they cause Sherlock a mad, itching sensation when John disinfected them.

Sherlock withered about on the couch, with John hovering over him, offering water, tea, biscuits, anything Sherlock need. When Sherlock shouted for the drugs John told him no, helped him through the feeling.

He could barely hold a cigarette but smoked then constantly, trying to fill his boiling blood with nicotine.

Finally, after dropping a cigarette for the twentieth time, John stood. It was mid-evening and had already grown dark outside. Lights flashed past the window as John said, 'I'll get you some patches.'

Sherlock glanced up at him.

'It'll help,' John said, 'keep your mind busy. Plus, you're ruining the couch even more.'

Sherlock smiled at that.

'Will you be okay by yourself?'

Despite feeling impossibly dreadful and weak, Sherlock nodded. There wasn't enough time to get any drugs before John got back with the patches. And he didn't want the drugs, he wanted to stay clean. He couldn't go through this again.

John grabbed his jacket and headed out, leaving Sherlock sitting in the living room. he sucked on his smoke and nearly dropped it again, coming close to burning his thigh. Sherlock wondered if a burn would help with the pain.

The door opened a few minutes later and Sherlock said, 'That was quick.'

But his mind was quickly attuning itself back to reality and Sherlock realised it wasn't John's steps. This man, he was slightly taller than John, and wore a different cologne. Sherlock breathed in and froze, recognising that smell.

'Hello Sherlock,' said the cold, high-pitched voice of Moriarty.

Sherlock turned to see the slim man standing in the doorway. He was wearing a clean pressed navy blue suit and shiny, shiny shoes. He looked the same cold, calculating criminal consultant that Sherlock had last seen.

'I'll scream,' Sherlock said. He was far too weak to fight back. In withdrawal, even Jim Moriarty could take Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty smiled. 'Ah, but if you do, I'll kill you,' he said and withdrew a black pistol from his trouser pocket.

'Gonna kill me yourself, then?' Sherlock asked. 'I didn't think you'd bother.'

'Oh, after last time, I came prepared,' Moriarty grinned.

'Why have you waited so long?' Sherlock asked. 'It's been two months.'

'I had things to do, criminal plans to hatch,' Moriarty said, his head twitching slightly.

Sherlock watched him carefully. He found it odd, to finally be up against Moriarty again. He had thought he'd want to fight, or talk, or possibly play some type of insane game... but Sherlock found that he didn't want any of that.

No, he wanted a normal case (well, as normal as Sherlock Holmes got, anyway), and he wanted to figure it out with John Watson. He wanted Mycroft stalking him the entire way, and Lestrade yelling at him about the rules. He wanted Donovan calling him "Freak", and Anderson blithering on about something idiotic.

Moriarty was a good adversary, a great one, but Sherlock just didn't want to play anymore.

The criminal mastermind seemed to notice the change in his counterpart.

'Why the smile, Sherlock Holmes?'

'Oh, nothing,' Sherlock murmured. 'Just waiting for you to shut up and get it over with.'

Sherlock was concerned now. Had Moriarty got to John? And if not, what would happen when John got back?

Moriarty would kill him, obviously. This withdrawal had thrown Sherlock more then he liked to admit.

_That's it, then, _he said. _I can't allow John to get injured, not this time. I won't do that again._

He looked up at Moriarty, who grinned like the insane man he was.

_Whatever the cost I won't let John get hurt._

For once in Sherlock's life, he put a person before the thrill of a puzzle.

Sherlock got to his suddenly and Moriarty stepped back.

'Not going anywhere, I hope,' he said.

'No, no,' Sherlock said. 'I wouldn't miss this for the world. He backed towards the window.

'I had high hopes for you, Sherlock Holmes,' Moriarty said and took a step forward for every one Sherlock took in retreat. 'But it seems you're not the adversary I thought I needed. You're ties to the police force, and that doctor... well, they make you weak. And I do not pit myself against weak people, no matter how brilliant they are.'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Sherlock said and stopped with his back pressed against one of the tall living room windows.

'I'd been hoping to cross your brother's path at some point but he is incredibly boring,' Moriarty mused.

Sherlock nodded. 'I agree with you one hundred percent, Jim. My brother can be boringly ordinary.'

Moriarty's dark eyes found Sherlock's bright blue ones. Sherlock would always worry that one day he'd turn into Moriarty; that the small bit of goodness in him would slowly disappear. But he didn't see the light in his eyes; the good he did. But John did. Others did.

Sherlock dropped the blanket that had been around him and faced Moriarty off. The other man was dressed impeccably and had a gun. Sherlock was in a silk robe, barefoot. What chance did he have?

There was only one way Sherlock could win this and that was to take the control away from Moriarty. He had to do something that Moriarty never would...

Sherlock took a step forward and Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

'I can see you thinking, Sherlock. I can smell it. Do tell what you have planned.

'No plan, Jim,' Sherlock said, 'no, more a final gesture.'

The consulting criminal raised a clean, brown eyebrow. 'Oh?'

And suddenly he realised what Sherlock was going to do and jumped forward. Sherlock pushed himself back and the window broke behind him, sending Sherlock tumbling back. But Jim Moriarty was fast and he grabbed Sherlock by the front of his robe, hauling him forward.

And then Sherlock spun so that Moriarty was leaning out the window.

All too late, Moriarty realised Sherlock's real plan.

'Sorry,' Sherlock said and pushed.

Moriarty fired his gun and the bullet clipped Sherlock's arm but it was no use. Moriarty was falling, quickly, and he hit the ground hard. It wasn't a long drop but he hit it back first, breaking his spine and smashing his skull.

Sherlock wobbled to the window and peered out. Down below lay Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal.

_Dead criminal, _Sherlock mused.

And then vertigo washed over him and Sherlock fell back. He hit the floor and immediately blacked out.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Back

The smell of antiseptic, the uncomfortable bed, the revealing gown... and of course, the beeping machines. Sherlock had been in injured enough times to know when he was in a hospital, even without opening his eyes.

He laid there silently, taking it all in, his mind rushing to remember what had happened.

_Drugs._

_Cuts._

_John._

_Cigarettes._

_Moriarty..._

_Ah, yes, Moriarty. _

He thought about the now dead criminal, his body splayed over the ground. And then someone cleared their throat.

'Please don't pretend to be asleep, Sherlock. It's tiresome.'

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw three people at his bedside; John, who had clearly been there since the incident (_same clothes as when he left to get patches, stubble along his jaw indicating three, maybe four days, clothes rumpled, slept here_), Lestrade, who was his same usual self (_old suit, worn, bags under eyes, working on a case, fingers twitching, has started smoking again_) and of course, Mycroft, who knew when Sherlock was faking (_expensive_ _suit, umbrella, combed hair... could have been here ten hours, could have come from the moon... always looks the same, boring, delete_).

'Four days?' Sherlock said, 'really, John, you should have a shower.'

John breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly Sherlock's brain was still working, then.

'The doctors said you were okay, just exhausted,' John said. 'You know, the drugs, the bullet wound, the cuts, the not sleeping or eating for four bloody days.'

'You're angry,' Sherlock said, 'I'm sorry.'

'Yeah, yeah,' John muttered and his eyes lit up.

'Glad to have you back, Sherlock,' Lestrade said.

'What case are you working?' Sherlock asked.

Mycroft tutted and John said, 'Sherlock, maybe you should rest.'

'I've been here four days, I don't want to rest,' Sherlock insisted.

John looked at him carefully. The doctors would let him go home now and what then? Would Sherlock go back to the drugs at the first opportunity? Would he cut himself if not given a case?

Sherlock could see all these questions on John's and Lestrade's faces. Mycroft, of course, was being his usual enigmatic self.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock insisted. 'Honestly. I think... I think the worst is over.' And then he gulped and said something that left all three stunned. 'But you should watch me, keep an eye on me. Mycroft, keep the surveillance teams. John, check on me every few hours if you can. Lestrade, the usual drug searches once a week, just to make sure.'

They all sat there in silence, staring at Sherlock. Was the great Sherlock Holmes actually asking for help?

'Oh, don't look at me like that,' Sherlock snapped. 'I want to get clean... I don't want to be Moriarty.'

'What on earth are you talking about?' John asked.

Sherlock looked down, afraid to see it in their eyes...

'I don't want to become him; a crazy criminal,' he admitted. 'I mean, I'm crazy, and I break the law, but... I don't want to become him. I don't want to lose whatever goodness I have.' He finally looked up at John and the doctor saw fear in his eyes. 'John, please don't let that happen.'

'We won't,' John reassured him.

'You're not Moriarty, Sherlock,' Lestrade insisted. 'You're a good person.'

'No, I'm not,' Sherlock said. 'I'm horrible, and mainly to the people who care about me.'

He had to stop now, he couldn't go on. Any more heartfelt admitting would send him over the edge.

John placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

'Just relax, Sherlock. We'll make sure you stay your usual overbearing self.'

And they did. Mycroft's surveillance followed him everywhere, kept tabs on his phone, John's, Mrs Hudson's, and every bloody landline and mobile in the building. Once a week Lestrade would pop around with a few officers and search the flat. John would ask Sherlock every once in a while if he ever felt the need to cut or take drugs.

But Sherlock was good, he kept clean. The cuts on his arm healed, a few new scars added to his pale skin. The track marks faded and Sherlock felt... clean.

He was eating slightly more, sleeping a little bit better, but he still refused to eat every day or sleep more than three or four hours a week.

To occupy his mind, Sherlock played his violin, ran mental experiments, and read up on subjects from the Egyptian Pyramids to Uluru in Australia. He constantly kept his mind busy while his body healed.

And finally, one month after "The Moriarty Fall", as John had called it on his blog, Lestrade called Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and answered with, 'What have you got?'

'_Nice to hear from you too,_' Lestrade grumbled. '_I'm fine, by the way, just broke up with my boyfriend, but oh, never mind–_'

'I don't care about your boy troubles,' Sherlock seethed. 'The case?'

Lestrade chuckled. '_Back to your old self, then? Good, I'm glad._'

'Lestrade...'

'_Yes, alright. Three shot in a hotel room, no gun, with a big bag of mulch thrown over then. Interested_?'

Sherlock grinned. 'Of course.'

'_Are you ready to come back?_'

Sherlock snorted. 'Yes, I'm fine.'

'_Good, 'cause I think Donovan and Anderson miss you. Stockholm Syndrome, you know._' He quickly gave Sherlock the address and the consulting detective hung up. He stood still, staring at the window but not really looking at it, mobile in one hand, violin and bow in the other.

John appeared from the kitchen. 'What's happening?'

'Lestrade phoned, we have a case.'

'Oh,' John said. 'Are you ready for that?'

Sherlock had told Lestrade he was... he needed the puzzle. But he turned to John and told him the truth.

'I think so... I think I'll be okay, with you there.'

John beamed. 'All right then, Mr Genius. Let's go.'

Sherlock grinned.

Various clews led them to stake out a gay bar, during the day. John was glad they didn't have to go in... _yet_. They sat across the street at a Starbucks, John sipping his coffee, Sherlock intentionally ignoring his.

There'd been something on John's mind for a while and now that Sherlock was clean and healthy (well, as healthy as you can get when you only sleep and eat a few days out of the month).

'Sherlock?' John said and he responded with a mumble. It was something John had to ask, he couldn't stop himself. If Sherlock felt more for John than just a friendship, better to tell him it couldn't go anywhere right now. 'Are you gay?'

Sherlock's eyes turned to look at him. 'What?'

'Are you?' John asked.

'No,' Sherlock said.

'So... you're straight,' John said.

'No,' Sherlock repeated.

John frowned. 'But... you have to be one or the other.'

'Oh, do I?' Sherlock asked and John could see frustration in his eyes. 'Why do I have to be one or the other?'

'Well, every human is... one or the other,' John said, 'or both, or neither. Are you both? Or are you neither?'

Sherlock froze then, his eyes on John. 'I thought we'd been over this; you're not my type.'

'I'm not gay, or bi, I like women,' John said strongly.

'Okay,' Sherlock said and his eyes flicked to John. 'Is this conversation going anywhere?'

'I just wanted to make sure that you knew... that, you know, we're just friends.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You're not my type, John.'

'So you _do_ have a type?'

He shrugged. 'If I have the urge its best to get it out of the way so I can focus on more important things. I don't see a reason for labelling anybody anything. Sexual attraction is sexual attraction. Call me what you want, I don't really care.'

John could see the logic in that; Sherlock Holmes' logic, that is.

'Okay, good,' John. 'I just wanted to be clear.'

'Shut up and keep an eye on the club,' Sherlock said.

John closed his mouth and complied. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye before smirking.

_Me and him, _he thought, bemused. _How utterly ridiculous._

(oOo)

Sherlock leapt into action quickly and it was all John could do to catch up. They ran through the Starbucks, thoroughly annoying three people, and bumped into four more out in the street.

You never would have thought Sherlock was a recovering drug addict from the way he moved. He was gracefully, fast, and extremely strong.

He leapt on a man and pushed him to the ground, flattening him so he couldn't move. The man growled as John caught up and a police car squealed to a halt beside them. Lestrade and Donovan stepped out.

'That him?' the DI asked.

Sherlock nodded. 'He met the husband, Alan Weston, in this bar. Got together, fell in love, but Weston wouldn't leave his wife. Called this man, Rumner, a pig. So Rumner tracked Weston, his wife, and their son to the hotel. Shot them and threw manure over them to show that they were the pigs, not him.'

'Brilliant,' John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Welcome back, Freak,' Donovan said. While she'd never like Sherlock, she had grown accustomed to him and couldn't deny the good he did.

She nodded at Sherlock, who looked startled before saying, 'It seems Anderson has dumbed you down; I didn't know you could pass on idiocy. Then again, this _is _Anderson.'

Donovan was frozen for exactly four.3 seconds (Sherlock counted), before uttering profanities and storming away.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. 'Good job, but did you have to say that?'

Sherlock just smiled.

Lestrade hauled Rumner away, leaving Sherlock and John standing in the street with a few people gawking.

Suddenly John laughed and Sherlock looked at him.

'What?'

'Nothing,' John said but was still grinning.

'What?' Sherlock demanded.

'It's just...' John shook his head. 'You're being deliberately annoying, and you insulted Donovan.'

'So?' Sherlock asked. 'Why does that make you laugh?'

'It means you're back,' John said.

Sherlock paused at that. Yes, he was being annoying as usual. And his mind focused on the small details of people, the summaries that when said allowed made people think he was psychic or a stalker.

'Yes,' Sherlock mused, thinking about that. He no longer felt the need of drugs, at least not like before. The want was still there, the craving, but Sherlock could ignore it again. He could covered it up with puzzles and murder cases. And John's friendship.

'I am back,' Sherlock said.

'Still annoying, though,' John said.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, still annoying.'

He and John laughed.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**So, that's it for this story. Might be the first, and last, Sherlock tale I write, but you never know. One day my fingers might twitch and I'll need to write about Sherlock.**_

_**Hope you enjoyed the story. I live to entertain.**_

_**{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}**_


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